Compulsion

by Don Julian Winslow

  "Go on, Dr. Heywood, I can wait till you get comfortable."

  She blushed and looked aside. The boy was watching her so intently; she couldn't bear the penetrating gaze that drilled right to her soul. She set aside her clipboard, got to her feet, and without a word, slipped off the jacket to her

  neatly tailored gabardine suit. She carefully folded the suit jacket and set in on her desk, all the while

  avoiding his eyes.

  "That must feel better now doesn't it, Dr. Heywood?"

  "Yes, I think it does, thank you." She felt a wave of relief. A refreshing coolness. A feeling of...freedom.

  "Before you sit down again, ah...why don't you take your blouse off, Doc?"

  The startling suggestion took her aback. A silent 'oh' formed on her pursed lips. She nervously removed her glasses, folded them, placed them on the desk. Standing next to her desk, the attractive blonde seemed paralyzed as a part of her mind studied the suggestion with clinical detachment. Should she take off her blouse? It was certainly uncomfortable, hot and stuffy with the sun streaming in through the plate glass windows. It would be so nice to simply slip out of her blouse -- to be free of it. She longed to do it, to strip it off, right here and now. Yet, wasn't there something wrong about that? The thought occurred to her: If she took her blouse off, the boy would certainly see her in her bra -- that didn't seem quite right. Instantly, the searing image of her sitting there in her office chair in her brassiere, rocketed through her, leaving her weak in the knees. The slightly-built blonde swayed, put out a hand to steady herself on the desk.

  "But Benjamin, I don't think..."

  "Go on, Doctor H.," the boy urged softly.

  She didn't move, but stood before the seated guy with her blond head tilted down. "Take off your blouse," he told her. Now there was a new tone to his voice, the last words clear and precise - an order quietly given, yet given with

  such authority that there could be no thought of disobedience.

  His eyes were smiling at her. They never left her small-breasted form, taking in her slight bosom in the cream-colored blouse as it rose and fell with the ragged undulations of her heavy breathing. Her own eyes were downcast now. The unseeing gaze locked on the richly carpeted floor at her feet. He did nothing. He waited, then watched with pleased interest as her hands slowly rose up as with a life of their own, to reach up to her collar and with calm, businesslike movements undo the top button of the slick blouse she had worn that day. He admired the deft fingers of that opened each button in turn, the slim hands working their way downward, hands that seemed detached, disembodied, as though some unseen force was undoing the front of her blouse for her as the girl stood passively by, simply submitting, letting herself be undressed. She peeled the open blouse back off her twisting shoulders, drew her thin straight arms from the sleeves, and carefully folded the silky blouse, to set it next to the discarded jacket on the polished cherrywood desktop.

  Now she stood before him, letting him see her in her bra, a mocha-colored Bali, trimmed with a narrow edging of ruffled lace. Her nipples, darkly prominent, were dimly visible through the thin wispy cups that softly cradled her petite breasts. She saw his eyes widen with delight when her blouse came off and he took in her bare neck and shoulders and her reedy torso banded by the pretty brassiere. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, but the anxious feelings were immediately lost by the warmth of the pleasure his eyes gave her. A feeling of well-being, of contented pride, surged through her. She smiled, looked to the seated boy for guidance.

  He nodded.

  "Just keep going Doctor H. Go on, get undressed. Take everything off. I want you naked."

  The words cut through her like a hot knife through butter, leaving the woman feeling loose, tinged with the promise of sexual freedom. A surge of eager horniness rushed up from her loins, heated her. The full realization hit her: she had to undress for him! But a tiny part of her brain cried out in alarm, and she hesitated.

  "But Benjamin, I'm not sure..." Her voice was strained, low and breathy.

  "Look at me," he ordered. Torn with indecision, the woman raised her agonized

  eyes to meet his.

  "Keep looking at me. Right into my eyes. You're not to look away," he warned.

  Looking deep into those mesmerizing gray eyes, she heard his voice tell her.

  "Now listen to me, Doctor Heywood. You are to take off all of your clothes. Now!

  The erotic command thrilled her to the core. Bethany bit her curled lip to suppress a tiny moan that still managed to escape. Her eyes fluttered closed. The blond girl swayed against the desk.

  "No! Open your eyes. Look at me. I told you ...keep looking into my eyes."

  Her eyes flew open. Big, brown and shiny, they were instantly captivated by his

  hard, unflinching, snake-like gaze.

  "Good. That's better. Now take off your skirt."

  Bethany's hands were trembling as they went to obey, blindly finding the catch at her hip, lowering the little zipper, bending foorward and bringing her knees together as she tugged down the narrow beige skirt of her business suit with a girlish wiggle, all the while remembering his injunction to keep her eyes on the masterful man-child who held her in thrall.

  She stepped out of the fallen skirt and picked it up, holding it between the fingers of her right hand as she straightened upright. She paused for an indecisive moment. It had come to her that if she were to move to set the skirt down on the desk with the rest of her clothes, she'd have to turn away from the those terrible eyes, ....and that she could not do! So she simply held out her discarded skirt, kept looking the masterful male in the eyes, and opened her fingers, letting the skirt of the expensive suit drop to the carpeted floor.

  His eyes were on her, all over her body, slowly sweeping from her pretty face down her lithe half-nude form to take in her narrow hips and the sleek, smooth lines of her panty-hosed legs. She felt a creamy surge of sexual excitement; a twinge in her vagina. She knew she was getting wet between the legs, and wondered if he could tell.

  Still looking at him, she reached up behind her to fumble with the catch on the bra strap. The bra popped free, and she peeled the dangling straps off her shoulders. So far this summer Bethany had managed to acquire a light tan, and the smooth tawny chest contrasted strikingly with the breasts she now released: pale white, soft and small, and cuddly.

  Considering the size of her breasts, Bethany’s nipples were surprisingly large; engorged, the tips were already stiffening with the tingling awareness that she was exposing herself to the man. She felt the heat rising heat, her cheeks burning as she realized his eyes were now fixated on her newly-freed breasts: delicate mounds, firm and taut-skinned. He watched them move with just the slightest wobble, as the blonde sat back on the desk to lean over and raise each leg in turn, reaching down to slip off her flats. She looked down in taking off her shoes, and immediately realized her error.

  "Look at me." Before she could react, she heard the quiet reminder.

  She looked up to find him staring at her. Their gazes met and stayed locked together, as she slid her butt to the front edge of the desk to perch there with nyloned legs dangling down.

  When she reached for the waistband of her pantyhose, she saw the hunger light up his eyes. She gathered up two handfuls of the honeyed nylon at her hips and dragged the tightly-fitted pantyhose down, lifting her bottom to ease their descent, tugging the clingy nylon down her legs, and pulling the stretching fabric off her feet.

  Now the doctor sat on her polished wood desk clad, naked, but for her thin, hip-hugger panties. The briefs were of a matching set with the bra: the same pale mocha in color, also opaque, with a slick reinforced gusset, and trimmed with the same narrow band of elastic lace. Bethany was super-aware of the lad watching her strip; the effect she was having on him had her tingling with excitement. She felt the dampness in her crotch, knew her panties were wet down there. The girl was burning up with heat, breathing through open lips a
s she reached for her underpants, but then she paused and a half-formed question came to her eyes.

  "Go on," he nodded; his voice suddenly hoarse.

  A wildly erotic thrill rocketed through her, as she lifted her butt, and quickly slid the silky panties down her legs and off her feet. She let them lie where they fell. For a moment no one spoke.

  "Stand up." A quiet order. She stood; no more than a puppet in his hands.

  She eased herself up off the desk and stood with bare feet on the thick carpet only inches away from the seated male, standing before the young man completely naked. Standing there before the man, she felt cool and free and deliciously naked, randy, wishing to flaunt her tight young body, every inch of which was wonderfully alive and tingling. She was extremely sensitive of the situation, aware, super-aware of his eyes on her, greedily drinking in her slender form. It was turning her on.

  He eased back in his chair, letting his gaze leisurely take in Bethany Heywood's nude body: the modest bosom, the slight swells of breasts that were small but appealing. The slender lines of her well-toned body, the flattened belly with skin pulled taut over jutting hipbones, and her womanhood exposed now for him to see: a modest tuck in a slightly bulging pubis, adorned with its puffy bush of soft brown hair. He wanted to fuck her. And fuck her, he would. But not just yet.

  "Yes. Very nice, Doc. You are one hot chick, do you know that?"

  The words burned her ears. She flushed, but otherwise the neutral expression on her face never wavered, even though she was secretly pleased and the pleasure she took in her feminine pride brought a flare of lust that heated her up even more.

  "Now I want you to sit down again, and we're gonna go on with our little chat, right where we left off. Maybe you remember, I was telling you about this ESP thing I had."

  Now the inner voice that had been niggling at her quietly, persistently pointing out that something was wrong here, broke through to scream into her head. This was crazy! It had to be a dream! Here she was -- stark naked in her office...and in front of a patient! And even as that desperate scream rose up in her it was instantly flooded out again with sexual excitement, thrill after thrill surged through her, each more intense than the last. The creamy rise of pleasure drove her to the very edge of orgasm.

  Her body was no longer under her control. It responded to orders from another, with movements that were calm and collected, belying the raging conflict of emotions going on inside her. Moving as in a dream, the nude woman obediently took her seat in the large overstuffed armchair, plunking her bare bottom down on the cool black vinyl seat cushion and easing back into her familiar pose. All business-like now, she took up her clipboard, re-settled the glasses on her pert nose so she might examine her notes, then leaned back and automatically crossed her slim legs; the last gesture got a frown from young Benjamin.

  "No! Don't do that! Don't cross your legs like that," he warned. "Keep 'em open, and spread your knees...wider. I want you showing me your cunt while we talk. Remember Doc, I'm paying for this hour, and I’d enjoy it more if I could see your pussy. Just sit there lie that while we have our little chat."

  Her knees slowly parted. It was all so bizarre; utterly surreal. Here she was: sitting in her office with a male patient, in nothing but her birthday suit, brazenly exposing herself to him. The full realization might, in another time, in another world, have seemed absurd to her. So absurd as to be unbelievable! Was she losing her mind?! But the jarring disconnect never entered her mind; she felt perfectly at peace. What the two of them were doing seemed the most natural thing in the world. The pretty doctor took up her pen, and gave her handsome young patient an inquisitive look.

  "Now where were we?"

  9. The Casual Touch

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  What is it that turns a perfectly normal girlfriend, or an ordinary wife, into a raging sex fiend – a woman driven by an insatiable appetite for sex? It’s one of those questions to which man has given a lot of thought over the ages. Maybe, just maybe, it may be no more than a single touch.

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  Two narrow tables had been set up on the floodlit stage flanking a podium that was bedecked with the ornate seal of Boxford College. Having taken their places at the tables, the six panelists were getting settled behind the sky blue banners that hung down draping the front of the tables. The banner on the left held the name “Boxford College” in bold, cream-colored script; on the right was the title of the week-long symposium: “A Woman’s Place.”

  Dr. Gail Fender-Lee, the youngest President of Boxford College, sat behind the table next to the podium, where, at the moment, today’s keynote speaker, the Pulitzer Prize runner-up Alma Wright, was acknowledging the polite applause, arranging her notes, preparing to address the group.

  Gail had shifted in her chair, twisting to look up at Ms. Wright, her smile of respectful attention fixed firmly on her upturned face. It was then that she felt the breath of air fan across her left ear -- warm and moist, like a summer’s breeze. Startled, she quivered, as though to shake it off. At that very instant it dawned on her -- she suddenly knew exactly what was happening. It was him! Reaching out for her! His touch on her shoulder; the electrifying announcement that said: ‘I am here.’ Soft, lightly teasing fingertips were felt on the back of her neck, gliding up under her collar-length hair. Her shoulders gave a tiny involuntary twitch. She knew for certain now, just what was happening. It had started -- here, of all places!

  ‘Oh god, not now. Please not now!’ She fought the rising panic, biting her lip. She felt the first unmistakable flush of heat. Under the table, her working fists tightened. She had to get a grip on herself; determined to maintain her poise, her self-control, to resist the terrible power of that loving caress, no matter what.

  Gail waited anxiously, fearful; not at all sure she had the strength to resist. She looked down at the tabletop, paused, took a deep breath, slowly let it out. It had never happened to her before, not like this, never when there other people around, never in public like this! This was something new, a dangerous escalation in the game he played. He would toy with her before possessing her, right there, in public!

  She prayed that he was just teasing her; one of his devilish little pranks. Perhaps it was no more than a passing fancy. Sometimes his touch was nothing more than that. A simple gesture to let her know that he was there: a reminder of what he could do. His way of telling her he had joined her.

  Flushed and feeling that telltale warmth, Gail sat rigidly on the stage, heart pounding, pulse racing, unseeing eyes gazing out at an audience of mostly young co-eds. The touch came again. This time on her knee at the hem of her skirt. She quickened, shot upright in her chair at the slight teasing. She could feel the pads of two fingertips gliding up the nyloned length of her left leg. Gail looked quickly around her, anxious to see if anyone noticed her startled reaction. Her fellow panelists were staring out at the audience; the audience, in turn, was giving their respectful attention to the speaker.

  The College President sucked in a shivering hiss of breath through clenched teeth as, without pause, the wicked fingers moved steadily to slip up under her skirt. She felt him trace a continuous line from her knee to her hip with a touch that was oh so light and delicate, the barest trace, a whisper to tease her: I am here, and I will have you.

  The tormented woman straightened, shivered in spite of herself, again looked around, nervously licked her lips.

  A wave of panic rose up in her, she had to flee, yet she remained paralyzed, glued to her chair. It came to her with desperate awareness: She was about to be taken. Right here! In front of all these people! ’Oh…please, not now,’ she silently begged, never sure if her controller could hear her unspoken pleas. The touch faded away. A wave of relief swept over her. Still she held herself tense, scarcely daring to breathe.

  Her relief was short-lived. Suddenly she felt the weight of masculine hands
heavy on her shoulders, fingers clamping her shoulders, holding her possessively from behind. She jerked upright as those hands came down her front to capture her small breasts through her clothes. She arched back at the creamy rise of pleasure as the knowing hands tightened on her brassiered beasts and she felt the searing lick of a tongue up the side of her neck. She quivered.

  She could sense him now, his masculine presence enfolding her. His hot breath was on her cheek. Her lips were being pressed back, mouth forced opened; her head fell weakly backward, and her tiny cry lowered into a helpless moan as it forced its way through her parted lips. She felt her controller’s tongue demand entry; press boldly deep into her mouth. She was being kissed; a soul-searching kiss of burgeoning passion.

  The youngest President of Boxford College slumped back, splayed out in her chair. Her eyes were closed; slack-jawed, she was breathing heavily through her opened mouth. On either side of her, her fellow panelists were eyeing the sprawled-out woman with increasing alarm. Suddenly, Dr. Gail Fender-Lee scrambled to her feet, stood staggering on her heels, looking about her wild-eyed like some crazy woman, before turning to rush off the stage.

  At the podium, Alma Wright, was stopped dead in the middle of a harangue about being sensitive to how men used women so shamelessly. Standing there with her mouth agape, she watched her distraught hostess stumble off the stage, while her eyes widened with astonishment.

  10. The World’s Hottest Mom

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